Chapter 6: The Espositos

Valentina POV

I stopped scrubbing, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I looked up, squinting against the bright Sicilian sun. "Where?"

He raised a hand, pointing vaguely at the wet stone directly beneath my left knee. "There. Right in the corner by the riser. It's dark."

I shifted my weight with a wince and moved the brush over the area, scrubbing hard until the lather turned white. "Here?"

"Now you've splashed soap onto the wood trim," he said, his voice flat, completely devoid of empathy. "You're making more work for yourself."

I set the brush down into the bucket with a wet slap. The exhaustion won out over my caution. "Franco, I've been out here since the sun came up. The steps are clean. There's no dirt left on—"

"Are you arguing with me?"

The words were quiet, but the temperature on the porch instantly dropped. Franco took a slow step down, leaning over me, his shadow completely blocking out the sun. The casual arrogance in his eyes turned into something heavy and dangerous.

A cold spike of fear went through my chest.

"No," I said, forcing my voice to level out, though my hands were shaking in the soapy water. "I'm not arguing."

"Good." He didn't move back. He just stood there, towering over me on the narrow stairs, enjoying the weight of his own authority. "Because I can send you back to wherever you came from before the sun goes down. You understand me? You're only under this roof because Giulia asked. But Giulia isn't the one paying for the bread you eat. It’s just me and Marta, and to be completely frank, we don't need you here."

I picked up the wooden brush again, my knuckles turning white around the handle. "I understand."

"Then finish the steps. Properly this time. And don't let me hear a single complaint out of your mouth again."

He turned and walked back inside, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him.

The silence of the street rushed back in. I sat back on my heels, the wet stone cold against my skin, and pressed a trembling, soapy hand against my stomach. Inside, a tiny movement flared. It was small—just a faint, delicate flutter against my palm.

Not yet, I thought, closing my eyes tight as the tears threatened to spill. Not yet. Just survive.

The months crawled by like a slow poison.

My belly grew, heavy and low, making every chore a physical battle. But as my stomach rounded, Franco's patience only shrank, and Marta's daily lists grew longer and more punishing. I stopped looking at the small calendar in the kitchen. I stopped keeping track of how many weeks had bled together since the night I arrived with a flat stomach and a single bag. There was no time for history. There was only the work.

The kitchen floors. The tile in the bathroom. The front windows. Franco's ironed shirts. Franco's heavy dinners. The endless stone porch steps, even when the winter rain turned the air ice-cold.

I learned to adapt out of necessity. I learned to move slower on the stairs so my shifting weight wouldn't trip me. I learned to swallow my meals in hot, fast bites so I could get back to the wash basin before Marta checked the clock. I learned to sleep anywhere—propped against the wall, sitting in the hard wooden chair, curled on the lumpy cot—because my body was doing two grueling jobs at once, and neither one cared that I was completely exhausted.

The baby kicked harder now, no longer a flutter but a sharp, demanding presence. Sometimes at night, when the house was dead silent and the dark felt heavy enough to choke me, I would lie on my side with both hands anchored to my stomach. I could feel the distinct shape of a tiny hand, the sharp jab of a small foot. A whole separate person, growing inside a war zone, completely unaware of where we were or the people waiting on the other side of the door.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into the dark of the tiny room, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry you're here. I'm sorry I couldn't give you anything better than this."

A heavy kick answered me, right against my ribs.

I swallowed hard, drawing the thin blanket up to my chin. Okay, I thought, letting out a ragged breath. Okay. We're still breathing. We're not dead yet.

The pain started at exactly noon.

At first, I didn't think much of it. I assumed it was just the usual, deep ache that came from spending nine hours a day on my feet, dragging heavy buckets of water and bending over low sinks. By this point in the pregnancy, everything in my body hurt. My lower back throbbed constantly, and my ankles were swollen to twice their size. I kept wiping down the grease on the kitchen stove, forcing myself to push through the discomfort.

But by three o'clock, the ache turned into a sharp, twisting knot. A wave of pressure hit me so hard that my legs buckled. I went down on my hands and knees onto the cold linoleum floor, gasping for air. The kitchen began to spin. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through the contraction, my fingernails digging into the wood of the nearest cabinet.

Marta was standing at the counter just a few feet away, her back to me as she chopped heavy winter vegetables for dinner. The rhythmic, dull thud-thud-thud of her knife against the wooden board didn't even pause.

"What's wrong with you now?" she asked. She didn't bother to turn around or look up from her work.

"I think..." I paused, catching my breath as the tight band around my stomach slowly began to loosen. "I think the baby is coming."

The knife finally stopped. The kitchen went completely quiet. Marta turned around slowly, wiping her hands on her stained white apron. She stood over me, looking down at my position on the floor, at the cold sweat dripping from my hairline, and at the white-knuckled grip I had on the thick wooden leg of the dining table.

"Now?" she said. Her voice was completely flat, as if I had just announced a minor inconvenience, like a cracked plate or a missing dish towel.

"Yes, Marta," I rasped, forcing myself to look up at her. "Now."

She didn't move for a long, agonizing moment. She just stared at me, calculating the disruption to her evening schedule. Finally, she set the heavy kitchen knife down on the counter and walked out of the room without saying another word.

I stayed on the floor, my forehead pressed against the cool wood of the table leg. From down the hallway, I could hear the muffled sound of her voice talking to Franco. They were speaking in low, hurried whispers. The house had thin walls, but the rushing sound of blood in my ears was too loud, and I couldn't make out the specific words they were throwing back and forth.

A moment later, Franco's heavy frame filled the kitchen doorway. He didn't come inside. He just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at me like I was a broken appliance he hadn't decided whether to fix or throw out.